


Graffiti

by Tseecka



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, Illiteracy, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But in the dark of night, as he practices with a hesitant finger and feather-light touch, there is no evidence of his child-like script. He leaves no marks, no ink blotching over parchment; he doesn’t have to see evidence of his ineptitude laid out in accusing black before his eyes."</p><p>---</p><p>Fenris practices his letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graffiti

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snefrue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snefrue/gifts).



When it is dark, the fire burning too low to see by and the bedside lamp extinguished, Fenris practices his letters. Years of running, of hiding, of being on constant guard against the ever-present templar threat have made Hawke a light sleeper, and so Fenris keeps his touch lighter still, carefully tracing out the patterns of the alphabet on a blank canvas with the pad of his finger. His normally dextrous hands, granted by his heritage and honed by years of unwilling service to demanding masters, are frustratingly shaky and unsure. He’s watched Hawke, writing letters by candlelight in the study, in the library, sitting up in bed with a wooden desk propped in his lap; he tries to mimic those quick, decisive strokes, but his finger moves too slowly, he has to spend too much time bringing to mind the particular curls and lines of each letter.

Hawke sits him at the desk each day, asking only fifteen minutes to practice with a pen in his hand and inkpot by his elbow, and Fenris accedes--out of duty, out of love, out of desire to have this weapon, too, to stab through the hearts of his former masters, this weapon with which to cut off more of the shackles they used to bind him. But it frustrates him, to see his own mature hand scratch out letters as though they were made by a child, and it’s seldom that he spends more than the asked fifteen minutes before the pen is slammed to the desk, any ink left in the nib spattering lightly over the paper. Hawke doesn’t push him, just takes up the sheet and slips it into a drawer in his desk. Fenris never asks for the pages back; not to keep, not to tear, not to toss into the fire. Ideas of sentiment and nostalgia have little import for him, but he understands their value for others, and his heart warms at the idea of Hawke keeping his early efforts even as he wishes he could produce something more fitting his age, his innate dexterity, the patience and ability of his teacher.

But in the dark of night, as he practices with a hesitant finger and feather-light touch, there is no evidence of his child-like script. He leaves no marks, no ink blotching over parchment; he doesn’t have to see evidence of his ineptitude laid out in accusing black before his eyes. He can blame hesitation, the jagged missteps, on his canvas; Hawke’s skin is anything but smooth, marked with scores and scars, raised lines of bumpy skin and shallow hollows burned out by mage fire. He ignores the fact that he knows every one of those scars, has memorized their feel, their location, and grants himself latitude instead.

Hawke has a peculiar mark across his right shoulder, where a curved blade had sliced through the flesh nearly down to the bone; Fenris traces it in the night when he needs to recall which way the tail of a ‘j’ curves. And down closer to his hip, the intersection of two straight cuts forms an ‘x’. His lips form the sound in the dark, smirking.

_‘There is a letter on your hip, here. An...x?’_

_Hawke laughs shakily, head hanging down between his shoulder blades. ‘Really, Fenris? Either my reading lessons are far more captivating that I’ve been giving myself credit for--oh, god, there, y--oh--or I’m doing a really poor job of holding your attention at present.’_

_Fenris chuckles darkly, rolling his hips, loving the way Hawke’s shoulders flex and the long, loud exhalation it draws out of him. ‘Neither. It’s just difficult to ignore in our...present engagement.’_

_He picks up the tempo, and Hawke meets him eagerly, muscles moving beneath the skin as he actively takes what Fenris gives. His laughter rumbles, and he shakes his head._

_‘What?’_

_‘Just…the letter. Say it. Repeat it.’_

_‘A lesson, Garrett? Now?’_

_Hawke laughs helplessly, and Fenris humours him, repeating the sound aloud in time with the rhythm of his hips. He hears the joke, and laughs, leaning down to wrap his arms around Hawke’s chest so that he can whisper into his ear._

_‘You ridiculous man.’_

He’ll only write at the desk for fifteen minutes, but Fenris would happily spend hours dozing lazily next to Hawke, moving his fingers over the bare skin of his back. He practices letters, writes out the words he knows by heart; sometimes, he’ll compose short notes, or try his hand at poetry, spelling out the sounds of old songs. Tonight, he practices writing out the names of their friends and companions, the mixture of large and little letters forcing his brain into overactivity. I-s-a-b-e-l-a. Hers is simple, straightforward. A letter for a sound. He thinks, grimaces, writes. A-n-d-e-r-s. Similarly simplistic, though distasteful. He has to admit that the mage, and his cause, are growing on him, if only because of the oft-repeated similarity to the plight of slaves in Tevinter. M-e-r-r-i-l-l. V-a-r-r-i-c. The duplicate letters trick him, and he has to remember that they are there, not merely rely on their sounds to give him the necessary hints. He avoids writing his own name; it feels vain, self-congratulatory. He thinks, carefully spells out B-e-t-h-a-n-y. The ‘y’ there is tricky; it shares a sound with ‘i’, and with double ‘e’, and the only way he keeps it straight is by picturing her staff. She more or less willingly submitted to the Circle; and she is Hawke’s sister, besides. He bears her no ill will.

He glances at Hawke’s sleeping face as he shifts in his sleep, turning his head on the pillow so that he faces Fenris, eyes still closed. The outline of his features is barely visible in the darkness, but his brow is slightly drawn, and Fenris frowns in sympathy. That would not have been the name he’d have chosen to bring Hawke out of sleep, but the man sleeps like the dead, only moving when he returns to consciousness. The rhythm of his breathing changes. Fenris gently swipes his fingertips across the non-existent name, trying to banish the negativity, as though erasing the letters could erase Hawke’s pain. Instead, he carefully spells out another.

H-a-w-k.

“E,” Hawke mumbles out of the corner his mouth not obscured by pillow. Fenris growls, briefly, in the back of his throat. He always forgets the silent sound at the end of the man’s name, doesn’t see the point of it; the word sounds the same either way. Still, he very deliberately pokes Hawke between the shoulder blades, though not hard enough to be uncomfortable, and swoops his finger in the spiral shape. Hawke smiles, eyes still closed.

“Feels nice,” he says sleepily, and Fenris smiles at him, spells out another word.

“Road.”

“Kirkwall.”

“Flower.”

Fenris pauses, swipes the skin to remove his error, restarts. Hawke nods approvingly, murmurs, “Sword.”

Hawke is growing sleepy again, like he always does when he awakes under Fenris’ fingertips. The touch wakes him by its strangeness, but soothes him back to sleep just as easily. Fenris feels his eyes growing heavy, as well, and knows that once Hawke is back in dreams, he’ll join soon after. He lowers his body to the mattress, rolling his shoulder to relieve the tension from keeping himself propped up so long. Hawke nestles closer, sharing his heat with Fenris. The man is a furnace, Fenris thinks; appreciated on cold nights, not so much during the heated Kirkwall summer. He doesn’t pull away, though, just kicks his leg out from under the blankets to balance out the warmth.

His hand rests in the dip of Hawke’s back, just above his backside, his knuckles rubbing idly back and forth as he thinks of something else to write. Hawke hums quietly, pleased, buries deeper into the pillows like some kind of dull-headed mabari, and Fenris feels a surge of warmth. He raises his hand, hesitates as he forms the letters in his mind, then writes, slowly, pausing between the words to indicate spaces and avoid confusing the man.

When Hawke doesn’t immediately respond, Fenris frowns, wondering if he’s made an error. Carefully, paying close attention to each shape, he writes it out again. Silence; he switches to large letters only, their distinct, blocky shapes simpler to feel out than small letters. There’s an intake of breath as Hawke catches on, and he rolls to his side, robbing Fenris of his canvas but rewarding him with shining eyes and a beatific smile on his lips.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, and Fenris smiles to hear it. He closes his eyes as Hawke’s arms wrap around him, and is awake only long enough to hear the man’s breathing even out in sleep before he, too, slips into the Fade.


End file.
